


Aftermath, and After That

by accio0greatness



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accio0greatness/pseuds/accio0greatness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Aftermath, and After That<br/>Gift For: alafaye<br/>Gift From: accio0greatness<br/>Rating: NC-17<br/>Word Count: ~2730<br/>Summary: The Boys cause trouble by abusing the workplace, reminiscing and getting into a Holiday Rumpus.<br/>Warnings: AU where Lily and Severus live, Neville is The-Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione-bashing to the max!<br/>Author's/Artist's Note: ...I may have had too much fun writing this.<br/>Beta: my lovely tyhyin<br/>Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath, and After That

"Harold James, feed this owl something, it's done naught but pester me since you've let it in," Lily's voice slipped right through the thin walls of the small flat. Pig continued nipping at her finger affectionately.

"All right, I've got some treats in the cupboard by the sink," Harry called as he slipped to his bedroom, letter in hand. Ever since Ron had transferred to a desk job at the Aurors Department, he'd gotten in the habit of sending lewd letters from noon on, even on days that Harry's mum stopped by to make sure her son wasn't starving to death.

And so it was that Harry was sitting in his bathroom, the cold porcelain of the toilet countering the continual slow filling of his cock where it nestled behind the confines of his trousers. He read on, thankful that over the years, growing up in the House that became famous for its libertine tendencies (all thanks to Seamus, really) his locking charms had grown near impenetrable.

Harry―  
Remember during Fifth Year when I snuck you into the Prefects Bath?

Of course Harry remembered; they'd had to tell Neville that they were off to sabotage Slytherin's brooms again―The Boy Who Lived had been put in the charge of Dean for his nightmares. It was the first proper time alone they'd ever had, he and Ron…

I remember how your skin was glowing―the very colour of this parchment, it was. And we stayed in the tub until we were shrivelled as prunes, and you were so fuckin' sexy you were the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

You tasted faintly of ginger biscuits, the same kind your mum makes. And your mouth fit so perfectly ‘round my cock, you remember that? It was captivating, you know, when you looked up at me with those big emerald eyes of yours and just knelt between my legs.

Harry groaned at the memory, it had been their first time going further than a joint wank, and he had been so nervous. Nervous until he'd seen the very thin rim of cerulean around Ron's massive pupils, until he's tasted the shivers that wracked through that long lean body as he ran his fingers over the taut belly, licking over the freckled pulse point and nibbling at the tendons in that cream-coloured neck, spattered with cinnamon-sugar freckles.

The letter went on, but he could hear his mother bustling about in the kitchen, so he chanted the mantra they had used back in Gryffindor Tower, when someone's girlfriend had spent the night and they didn't want to be seen sporting a stiffy because Seams would (and did often) cause collisions between his fists and mouths of others in the room.

"McGonagall naked, Mrs Norris, The Fat Lady prancing about in a corset, Pug-Face Parkinson and that stupid fucker Malfoy!"

Unfortunately, his lower half remembered that Yule right after the War, when he'd found the drawn face of Malfoy Younger standing perplexed outside of Ollivander's, cross because he desperately needed a new wand (and Merlin's Beard, could he afford it!) and taking a huge bite out of the humility bar, had asked for help from the one boy he'd most often ridiculed.

It remembered how Draco's mouth had twisted when he'd brought him home to Ron and given him the ultimatum: spend a night with us, and Neville Longbottom's stamp of approval would be guaranteed on the paperwork that was needed for Malfoy's reintroduction into the Wizarding community.

Twitching painfully, it recalled the beautiful lines those angular bones had made next to his crimson-haired lover, the sight of their reflections the next morning, love bites like battle wounds against pale skin, rank with sex and the hungry violence in their morning fuck that left―

So now, he needed a fresh pair of boxers. And trousers.

 

\---

 

Eventually, he showered, noticing that he'd somehow gotten back in the habit of combing his unruly hair over his scar. When he'd padded to the kitchen, his mother was gone; a plate of bangers and mash that had a warming charm on was on the counter.

Reminding himself not to be so secretive as if he was still a hormone-riddled adolescent, he shrugged his coat on and sent an owl to Uncle Sev, reminding him that they needed to meet up to plan the surprise party for Lily's next birthday.

On his walk to the ministry, his cheeks burned with cold, and he cursed under his breath about the gloves that had to be wandering about because he was positive he'd left them in his right pocket. He made his way to the toilets and fished for the smooth M.O.M. coins that now held Neville Longbottom's shy, smiling face on their backs. He flushed, stomach in his throat as he fell through the chute.

After a trek up the stairs that left him wheezing (and cursing his ridiculously low cardiovascular capacities) he stood outside of Ron's wing. He slipped in with a nod to Terry Boot and found Ron in his office, joking with Neville and Seamus about the last time he'd seen that annoying girl from their year, the one with all the bushy hair.

"... and this Granger, she got all red-faced and the vein in her forehead did that bulgy thing like when she'd found out that Harry was top of our class in Potions during First Year and she fucking screeched at me: 'Ronald Weasley you are a living abomination!' So I told her an abomination was having teeth like that when her parents were dentists!"

Neville was practically collapsed on the floor at hearing this, laughing so hard he looked quite distressed―he and Hermione had dated until Ron and Harry had officially announced they were a couple. The fact that Neville didn't share her biblical views on homosexuality had led her to sever their relationship, which was truly heartbreaking since Neville had been planning on asking her to marry him since after their Fourth Year.

Harry stayed to see Neville and Seamus off, Dean came round with Angela (the three year old daughter of his youngest sister) to escort Shay home, and as usual, Neville couldn't resist the babbling toddler and so was baited into helping babysit while Lydia and George Weasley were out rediscovering their romance.

Slipping into the Floo, Ron's hand in his, felt as natural as breathing, though it turned out to be much more exciting as they found themselves on Harry's sofa, shedding layers as they made sure their lips still tasted the same. Yes, the slick tongue lapping at Harry's bottom lip tasted of dark chocolate.

"You've got to stop eating sweets all the time; you taste like a Chocolate Frog at all hours."

"Yes, Mum," but it really didn't matter that the man was going to rot his teeth, not when his mouth could do that to the smooth skin behind his ear, not when his fingers were so deft on the buttons of his jeans.

Glasses askew, Harry rolled over, forgetting the couch was quite narrow, landing atop the muscular frame he loved. Grinning at the shocked expression on Ron's face, he was caught off-guard as Ron rolled them again, trying to pin the man who could've been England's Seeker after the war. The struggle was well-matched; Ron's defined legs were balanced out by Harry's skill at wriggling from tight places, as well as his knowledge of all the ticklish spots on that long torso.

"You think I like having to hide in my room like a child because you write me naughty letters when you should be working?" Harry punctuated his inquiry by grinding his thoughts about said letter against a well-muscled thigh. Instead of letting Ron answer, he sank his teeth none too gently into that swollen bottom lip. "You think I like wanking in the shower because I'm so," he let his voice drop to a hoarse whisper. "Because I'm so hard for you?"

Ron grasped his hips and bucked upwards, dragging a hard hot line of flesh against his hip. The ragged groan he let out reverberated in his throat against Harry's lips. It sent a jolt to Harry's cock, and as he pressed his fingers against the large column that was stifled in Ron's grey work pants, thick fingers carded through his hair. They were a tangle of limbs again, like they had been during school, skipping lunch to twist around each other, half-dressed and all but physically on fire.

Harry eased the zipper of Ron's trousers down and slid them down the narrow hips, cupping the firm-yet-round buttocks in his hands. At this, a soft keen filled the air; Ron's eyes were nearly completely black now, and the cinnamon-sugar dots of colour across his freshly-bared collar bone trailing faintly to a pale chest that radiated extreme amounts of heat called for a tongue to lap at them.

So Harry did.

He pulled his own jumper over his head (it was a Weasley one, a deep indigo that was very soft, Molly and Arthur were quite well-off after the war, with Percy as Minister and all), kicked his jeans off after having done that unattractive dance where one tries to pry their trainers off with their toes.

As he did that, the sight that rewarded his eyes nearly sent him over the edge―Ron's grey pants were bunched up at his knees, and his delicious cock, the very one that had him salivating every time he passed the Prefects' Bath, was slipping in and out of view as it pumped through the coil of freckled fingers. The muscles of Ron's core quivered as he gnawed at his lower lip, high spots of colour on his cheeks. To say he looked like sex was a severe understatement.

The first time he'd seen him like this, it had been after a D.A. meeting, an especially strenuous one that had left them both on a high at having cast their Patronuses successfully (Harry's Gazelle, Ron's Irish Wolfhound) and they all celebrated differently: Dean and Seamus snuck off to find a classroom for their ‘celebratory activities', hoping not to get caught by Umbridge, Neville and Hermione had refrained from studying for a night, and simply sat in front of the fire in the Common Room. Ron celebrated by wanking. Harry celebrated by watching him.

But unlike that first time, he wasn't nervous as hell, he was confident as he tugged the pants from legs that were miles long. He continued gaining confidence as he licked wide stripes against the thin skin of inner thighs, lapping at the papery skin of bollocks and their crimson hair, his tongue slippery with pre-come, Ron's girth as always, a delight to behold.

"Harry don't, don't st―"

The rest of Ron's phrase ended in a hiss as he clenched at the ever-unruly ebony hair, that mouth easing around him with suction that had all coherent though wiped from his mind as the blood from his brain quickly redirected to his throbbing cock were it glistened between thin lips.

And it was the evening after Dumbledore's funeral, they were broken inside, proving their vitality through carnal acts that had then simultaneously moaning and wiping tears from their eyes, pleas from their tear-scratched throats; Harry was swallowing around his cock and he was coming so hard he thought he'd felt his bones liquefy.

There he was, his beautiful Harry, lapping at his cock as if it tasted like heaven itself (though truthfully, it did) and whimpering as he did so. The light hint of teeth did him in and his hips bucked wildly, a clever throat milking him dry.

Harry let him recover for a few minutes; the way he twitched every so often renewed his faith in his fellatio skills. When Ron had regained use of his arms and legs, he clasped Harry to him, his kisses as overwhelming and raw as they'd been in the Quidditch showers after practice Sixth Year, sloppy and wild, a healthy dose of teeth-to-lip and tongue-to-neck.

Harry clambered on top of him now, rubbing their cocks together, Ron's fingers sinking into his warm cleft. As he opened his mouth to cast the routine charms, Harry's strained "I did, when I was in the shower," reached his ears; he groaned as he slipped his index finger into that tight heat, muscle clenching around the digit.

Normally, he would've taken time to stretch Harry properly, but with the way he was writhing on his lap like a mad thing, it was impossible to wait. Repositioning as he thanked Merlin above that he was twenty-two and capable of quick recovery, he was mesmerised by Harry's face as he sank onto his shaft. His mouth was swollen and lush, glasses scattered sometime during their frenzy, eyes dark save the ring of emerald―the pulse point in his neck fluttered quickly, teeth marks graced his throat like a necklace and his stomach was taut with lithe muscling, cock curving upwards from its thatch of black curls. It was perfect and lovely and tight and sweet Circe, he was clenching around him, hips rocking back and forth as he laced his arms around Ron's shoulders for balance.

They clung to each other, their harsh panting heating the quickly cooling room (Harry hadn't renewed the heating charms and a basement flat was always chilly) and the slap of skin against skin was fuel to their fire. And they locked eyes again, Harry whispered the words he'd first said tearfully during Yule of Sixth Year, words that had been welcomed with the same shy smile as now, and as they were enveloped in the purity of their love, the walls of the world came down and were reborn as muscles clenched, relaxed, tensed, and released in one fluid second.

 

\---

 

Ron woke up first, thanks to the subtle charm he'd cast on his leather bracelet (a present from Charlie) for this day. He carefully shifted from the cocoon of heat that is Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Ron-Loved, and retucked the blanket they'd transfigured from Ron's jumper beneath Harry's exposed side. He found his trousers, dug inside for a small shrunken cube and with a quiet Finite beheld the two silver bands. The previous month, he'd gone to Severus and Lily, the two most important adults in Harry's life. As he asked for Harry's hand, Lily was quick to happy tears and hugs, but Severus simply stared him down.

"You shall care for him?"

"As long as he wants me to, I will."

And he nodded, this man that Harry had told him was Sirius Black's lover, who'd seen death and destruction and every day came back to behold the son of his childhood friend and boyhood nemesis―this icon of strength was agreeing to let him bond with the love of his life.

"Weasley, I know some terrible potions. Don't tempt me."

"I'll be sure not to do anything even slightly terrible, then."

And so Ron now crossed to the kitchen, flinching at the cold lino on his bare feet. He put grounds in a filter for Harry's Muggle coffee-maker and remembered seeing Harry for the first time in months at the Battle of Hogwarts. He'd been glorious, still quiet, but no longer naive about the Dark, about its power. He fought beside Neville, two scarred-not-scared boys blocking hexes and stepping over bodies, watching their friends die.

And Ron loved him.

He loved him then, with his knobby knees and messy hair and socks that never matched; he loved him when it rained and he found Harry crying over the first anniversary of the deaths of Luna and Ginny. He loved him so much when he saw Harry holding Victoire after her christening that his chest ached with it.

Ron loved him when he sleepily rubbed at his eyes and pressed a good morning kiss to his cheek, especially when he whispered Yes and slipped the silver ring onto his finger.


End file.
